Grand Union was open twenty-four hours. Tempting, but a bad idea. Ramirez could be out there. Bad enough to worry about him during the day when there are people around and visibility is good. Going out at night seemed foolishly risky.
I went back to bed and instead of thinking about Joe Morelli, I found myself thinking about Ramirez, wondering if he was out there, parked in the lot or on one of the side streets. I knew all the cars that belonged in the lot. If an odd car was there, I'd spot it.
Curiosity had me now. And the excitement of a possible capture. If Ramirez was sitting in my lot, I could have him picked up. I slipped from under the covers and crept to the window. The lot was well-lit. Not a place where a car could be hidden in shadow. I grabbed hold of the curtain and drew it open. I expected to look down at the lot. Instead I looked into the obsidian eyes of Benito Ramirez. He was on my fire escape, leering in at me, his face illuminated in ambient light, his massive body shadowed and threatening against the night sky, his arms outspread, and his hands flat to the window frame.
I jumped back and yelped, and terror filled every part of me. I couldn't breath. I couldn't move. I couldn't think.
"Stephanie," he sang, his voice muffled through the black glass. He laughed softly and sang my name out again. "Stephanieeeee."
I wheeled around and flew out of the room and into the kitchen, where I fumbled in my bag for my gun. I found the gun and ran back to the bedroom, but Ramirez was gone. My window was still closed and locked, the curtains half open. The fire escape was empty. No sign of him in the lot. No strange car that I could see. For a moment I thought I'd imagined the whole thing. And then I saw the paper taped to the outside of my window. There was a hand-printed message on the paper.
God is waiting. Soon it will be your time to see Him.
I ran back to the kitchen to dial police dispatch. My hand was shaking, and my fingers wouldn't go to the right buttons on the phone. I took a calming breath and tried again. Another breath and I was telling the answering officer about Ramirez. I hung up and dialed Morelli. Halfway through the dial I cut the connection. Suppose Terry answered. Stupid thought, I told myself. She'd dropped him off. Don't make more of it than it is. There could be an explanation. And even if Joe wasn't the world's best boyfriend, he was still a damn good cop.
I redialed and waited while the phone rang seven times. Finally Morelli's machine picked up. Morelli wasn't home. Morelli was working. Ninety percent certainty, 10 percent doubt. It was the 10 percent that kept me from calling his cell phone or pager.
I suddenly realized Briggs was standing next to me.
The usual sarcasm was gone from his voice. "I don't think I've ever seen anyone that scared," he said. "You didn't hear anything I was saying to you."
"There was a man on my fire escape."
"Ramirez."
"Yeah. You know who he is?"
"Boxer."
"More than that. He's a very terrible person."
"Let's make some tea," Briggs said. "You don't look too good."
I brought my pillow and quilt into the living room and settled on the couch with Briggs. Every light in my apartment was on, and I had my gun within reach on the coffee table. I sat like that until daylight, dozing occasionally. When the sun was up, I went back to bed and slept until the phone woke me at eleven.
It was Margaret Burger.
"I found a check," she said. "It was misfiled. It's from that time when Sol was arguing with the cable company. I know Mr. Bunchy was interested in seeing it, but I don't know how to get in touch with him."
"I can get it to him," I told her. "I have a few things to do, and then I'll stop around."
"I'll be here all day," Margaret said.
I didn't know what I was going to get out of the check, but I thought it couldn't hurt to take a look. I made fresh coffee and chugged a glass of orange juice. I took a fast shower, dressed in my usual uniform of Levi's and a long-sleeve T-shirt, drank my coffee, ate a Pop-Tart, and called Morelli. Still no answer, but I left a message this time. The message was that Morelli should page me immediately if Ramirez was caught.
I took the pepper spray out of my shoulder bag and clipped it onto the waistband of my Levi's.
Briggs was in the kitchen when I left. "Be careful," he said.
My stomach knotted when I got to the elevator, and again when I stepped out of the lobby, into the lot. I quickly crossed to the car, powered up the Porsche, and watched my rearview mirror as I drove.
It occurred to me that I was no longer looking around every corner for Uncle Fred. Somehow the Uncle Fred search had morphed into a mystery about a butchered woman and dead office workers and an uncooperative garbage company. I told myself it was all the same. That somehow it all tied to Fred's disappearance. But I wasn't completely convinced. It was still possible that Fred was in Fort Lauderdale, and I was spinning my wheels while Bunchy laughed his ass off. Maybe Bunchy was actually Allen Funt in disguise, and I was on funniest bounty hunter bloopers.
Margaret opened the door on the first knock. She had the canceled check ready and waiting for me. I scrutinized it, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary.
"You can take it if you want," Margaret said. "It's no good to me. Maybe that nice Mr. Bunchy would want to see it too."
I dropped the check in my bag and thanked Margaret. I was still spooked from finding Ramirez on my fire escape, so I drove to the office to see if Lula wanted to ride shotgun for the rest of the day.
"I don't know," Lula said. "You aren't doing anything with that Bunchy guy, are you? He has a sick sense of humor."
We'll take my car, I told her. Nothing to worry about.
"I guess that would be okay," Lula said. "I could wear a hat to disguise myself, so no one recognizes me."
"No need," I said. "I have a new car."
Connie looked up from her computer screen. "What kind of car?"
"Black."
"That's better than powder blue," Lula said. "What is it? Another one of them little jeeps?"
"Nope. It's not a jeep."
Both Connie and Lula looked at me expectantly. "Well?" Lula said.
"It's . . . a Porsche."
"Say what?" Lula said.
"Porsche."
They were both at the door.
"Damned if it doesn't look like a Porsche," Lula said. "What'd you do, rob a bank?"
"It's a company car."
Lula and Connie did some more of the expectant looking at me with their eyebrows up at the top of their heads.
"Well, you know how I've been working with Ranger . . ."
Lula peered into the car's interior. "You mean like getting that guy to blow hisself up? And like the time you lost the sheik? Hold on here," Lula said. "Are you telling me Ranger gave you this car because you're working with him?"
I cleared my throat and polished a thumbprint off the rightrear quarter panel with the hem of my flannel shirt.
Lula and Connie started smiling.
"Dang," Lula said, punching me in the arm. "You go, girl."
"It's not that kind of work," I said.
The smile on Lula had stretched ear to ear. "I didn't say anything about what kind of work. Connie, did you hear me say anything about this kind of work or that kind of work?"
"I know what you were thinking," I said.
Connie jumped in. "Let's see . . . there's oral sex. And then there's regular sex. And then there's—"
"Getting close now," Lula said.
"All the men who work with Ranger drive black cars," I told them.
"He give them SUVs," Lula said. "He don't give them no Porsche."
I bit into my lower lip. "So you think he wants something?"
"Ranger don't do stuff for nothing," Lula said. "Sooner or later he gets his price. You telling me you don't know the price?"
"Guess I was hoping I was one of the guys, and the car was part of my job."
"I've seen the way he looks at you," Lula said. "And I know he don't look at any of the guys like that. Think what you need is a job description. Not that it would matter if it was me. If I could get my hands on that man's body, I'd buy him a Porsche."